Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
You are exactly where you are meant to be. Keep going.
—From Remy’s Affirmations for a Badass
Remy
Driving home from her volunteer shift, Remy was preoccupied with the financial crisis at St. D’s and wondering how to appropriately ask her boss and his wife for a fuckton of money, when her phone rang. Brinder again.
She freaked, momentarily panicking that she’d already sent him a text begging for millions and then blanked on it.
Pull your shit together, Remington.
Taking a deep breath, she tapped the button on her steering wheel. “Another issue at Evangelist? Do you need me? Ortho trauma case?” she answered, not bothering with formalities.
“No, nothing like that. I, uh, have a scenario I want to run past you and I’m wondering if you can stop by the house.”
“A scenario?” What kind of scenario? On a Saturday night? Holy shit? Had she sent the text? She quickly glanced at her phone, grateful she was at a stoplight. Phew. No text. So then what was this about?
“It’s better explained in person,” Brinder hedged, sensing the confusion in her hesitation.
“This is highly unusual, Brinder.” Remy’s mind whirled with possibilities, coming up with nada.
“Tell me about it,” she thought she heard him mutter.
“And this can’t wait until Monday?” Her confusion turned to frustration.
Remy was exhausted—mentally and physically—and despite the fortuitous opportunity at hand to ask both Brinder and Honor in person to help St. D’s, now was not appropriate.
Remy needed time to formulate a proper philanthropic request, with Anya’s guidance.
A deep low voice in the background spoke urgently, but Remy couldn’t make out the owner or the words. It sounded like Brinder had muffled the phone against his body. After a brief exchange, Brinder responded, “No. It has to be this weekend. It can be tomorrow, but ideally tonight.”
“You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”
There had been a big, hush-hush scandal with Evangelist’s former chief medical officer.
Only Agnes, as president, and Brinder knew the scoop apparently.
There was also a rumor at the hospital that Brinder had been embroiled in something with a former Board member’s daughter.
But apparently that had long been laid to rest. Hadn’t it?
Brinder was the best boss she’d ever had.
If he needed something from her and it was in her power to give it, so let it be done.
“No, it’s nothing like that. Where are you?”
“I’m driving. Send me your address.”
“You want me to do what?”
Intense but warm brown eyes caught hers and stayed there. “I want you to marry me.”
Remy sat back on the butter-soft leather couch. Jayzus…this was freaking comfortable. Too bad she couldn’t properly enjoy it, her entire being in such shock she’d swear she was being electrocuted.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She folded her arms. “Listen, I don’t know what games you’re up to.
I don’t even know you.” Remy turned to Brinder.
“It’s only because of my trust in you and my respect for you that I’m not walking out this door right now and driving home to write up my resignation. This is…offensive.”
Brinder’s jaw popped as he glared silently at Bash.
“It’s not a game,” Bash soothed, reaching a hand toward her and then clearly thinking better of that ill-advised move. Instead, he awkwardly dropped it to his lap with a nervous tap. “Just…please…listen for a moment. Please, Arabella.”
Remy’s chin set in indignation. “I don’t recall giving you permission to call me that.”
Bash Wheatley—Hollywood scion and three-time People magazine sexiest man alive—ran a hand through his wavy, perfectly tousled hair. “Arabella—Dr. Remington—sorry. Let me please explain.”
She looked at her watch. “You have three minutes.”
Bash took a deep breath. “First, none of this was Brinder’s idea. We had to bully him.” He motioned between him and Honor.
“I had to promise sexual favors I’ve never even experienced,” Honor added under her breath.
“LALALA! Smurfs and sparkly unicorns!” Bash shouted, his hands over his ears.
What the fuck was going on here?
“Are you all drunk? Am I being punked?” Remy pressed her fingers into her temples in a vain attempt to clear her head.
“Let me start again, please.” Bash looked over at his sister. “With no other extraneous details added, please, Honor.”
“You’re down to two minutes.” Remy gathered her purse, the Cabernet Brinder had poured untouched in front of her.
Bash inhaled and then spoke rapidly. “I have an opportunity for the role of a lifetime. But the producer won’t green-light it unless I can convince him I’ve given up a lifestyle that feeds poor choices in relationships, resulting in public drama and a media feeding frenzy.
I was on the phone with him and you were hovering in the back of my mind—”
“What?!” Remy practically screeched.
“Put a pin in that. More later.” Bash resumed a babble stream she was only barely following. “Anyhow, he was pressing me about it and I just blurted that I was in a new, but strong, relationship with an orthopedic surgeon. And then he was delighted and asked her name and so I told him.”
She opened her mouth to speak and he held up his hand.
“Let me just finish. I gave him your name,” he hurried on, pacing back and forth in front of her, “and told him how magnificent you are. And then I told the whole story to Honor and Brinder and some friends. And Honor suggested that I make a ten-million-dollar donation to St. Nympho’s in exchange for you marrying me. ”
“Pretty sure he did that in one breath,” Honor whispered to Brinder.
“Fucking hell,” Brinder breathed, his head in his hand.
Remy sat in stunned silence, her mouth hanging open. Bash sat next to her, shifting his body to face her, and then shocked her once more by taking her hand between his and gently caressing it.
“Arabella, please. I’m not trying to make your life difficult.
I’m not teasing or mocking or in any way making light.
I never should’ve said what I did, and especially not given your name.
But, my dream was dangling within my reach and you were in my mind—because I can’t stop thinking about you—and I just… merged them together…and out it came.”
“Out it came,” she repeated. Her body was numb, her head was light, and her ears buzzed. Remy wondered if she was going to faint.
Earnest brown eyes scanned her face. “I think she needs water.”
“I think she needs a shot—or five—of something strong.” Remy closed her eyes and shook her head, trying mightily to ingest Bash Wheatley’s words.
When she opened them again, someone had put a glass of ice water on the table in front of her.
Bash released his gentle grip on her hand—she didn’t even want to contemplate how soothing that had been and how much she instantly missed the contact—and handed her the water, which she downed in three gulps.
Only when she placed it back on the table did she realize her hands were trembling. She tried to form words, but couldn’t.
“Arabella, I know this sounds so farfetched. But I promise, you’ll barely see me.
I’ll be gone off and on for at least half of our fake marriage.
I’m begging you. I will give you anything you want.
Cars. A mansion. Buy you the fanciest surgeon stuff for your OR.
Hell, I’ll build you a hospital wing. I’ll pay to name a newly discovered plant species for you. ”
“You can do that?” Brinder, who she knew was a BBC nature documentary nerd, sat at attention, clearly momentarily distracted from his vociferous opposition to her fake marriage to Bash.
Bash nodded absently at Brinder, then turned his unsettling focus back to her. “All that’s in addition to donating ten million to the shelter—”
“Twenty million,” she heard herself say.
“Pardon?” He took her hand again, cradling it between his and rubbing soft circles on the back.
Tiny hairs rose on her neck as she watched the hypnotic movement.
“Twenty million. I don’t need anything else.
But if you really want this role, Sebastian Wheatley…
” She lifted her eyes to meet his, a discomfiting hum of electricity catching her by surprise.
“I will agree to fake date you, after which, I’ll marry you for an agreed-upon period of time.
Long enough for you to secure and then film your dream role.
” She took a deep breath and tried to tug her eyes away from his penetrating stare.
“In exchange for a twenty-million-dollar donation to St. Dymphna’s. ” She rolled her eyes. “Not nymphos.”
That word brought an entirely different set of circumstances to mind. In particular, sex with Bash. Her cheeks flamed, the tips of her ears joining the party. This reaction—and her wayward thoughts—were completely out of character for her.
Remy’s eyes had been fastened to Bash’s, offering her a front row seat as a glorious smile spread across his stupidly handsome face.
“Done. Ten million payable right away, and ten million at the conclusion of our arrangement.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “You won’t regret this.”
Famous. Last. Words.